


show me the stars that live in your eyes

by Living_On_My_Own



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, Slow Burn, Smile (Band) Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29095371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own
Summary: Brian’s been looking at him while he talked. He’s been looking at him, making Freddie nervous, making his heartbeat faster, making his hands sweaty. He looks at him with something in his eyes, and Freddie doesn’t know how someone can look at him like that. He doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind Brian looking at him like that forever, with that small smile on his face.He needs to calm down, or else he’s going to be buried way too deep way too quickly. They’ve only met each other an hour before, only exchanged a couple of words.But Freddie already longs for another of Brian’s hugs.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 30
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my second story with more than one chapter that I wrote on my own so I’m quite nervous! I hope you’ll like it and please give me all the encouragement you can because I’ll need it all for motivation😂
> 
> Have a nice time reading the first chapter!

Music buzzes through each of his body parts. He closes his eyes, mouthing only slightly the words of the song he now knows by heart. He smiles when the part of the song he prefers starts, when the tempo increases, along with the beating of his heart. He takes a sip of his drink, not even wincing at the burning of the alcohol on his aching throat. Leaning against the counter of the bar, he lets the bass envelop him; he lets the guitar make him shiver from the base of his spine all the way to his neck. Music makes him vibrate, makes his long and exhausting life light up, even if only for a few minutes. Sometimes it makes him happy for days on end, when a melody repeats itself in his mind, over and over again. It makes him possessed with determination and he writes for hours until his whole mind feels empty. He has pages and pages filled with imaginary worlds, stories of characters he cherished, used as a source of comfort when he was only a kid. It always puts a smile on his face, he’s never been prouder of anything and not even his father, who always made him abandon every passion he had, will make him lose his love for the only thing that got him through life, that made life worth living, worth fighting for. 

He always dreamed of making this passion his job, of living through shows, through sore throats because of over exertion, through sleepless nights in the studio, making albums, perfecting them to the smallest details. He dreams of having his songs playing in clubs, on the radio, in commercials. He dreams of touring the entire world with friends, of it seeming like vacations when it’s all work. He dreams of filled stadiums, people looking up at him, people cheering for him, people singing his songs to him. He dreams of proving to his dad that he can do it, that he’s strong enough, good enough, talented enough. He dreams of proving old mocking acquaintances that they’ve been wrong about him, that he isn’t only a buck-toothed immigrant with dreams way too big. 

He likes to watch bands in bars, to listen to their music, to get inspiration. But this one is different, this one makes him feel things so much more strongly than any other band does. He listens to the drumming, to the bass, the guitar, wondering how his voice would sound like with them. They do look awfully boring, but Freddie can’t bring himself to care when he just wants to make his voice harmonise with the musicians. He wishes he could just play a moment with them, put Tim, the singer, aside and replace him for a little bit, just to know what it feels like to belong, to have instruments backing his voice. He’s never had that. 

His eyes are always glued to the unnamed guitarist. The way he moves, the way he plays. His long curly hair always moves in every direction when he’s concentrating, only focused on his playing, on the way his fingers move on the arm of the guitar. His voice, only heard when he sings the back vocals, mixed with the voice of the drummer, is soft, it doesn’t have much power, but it has its own personality; it gets rougher sometimes, but it’s soothing when he wants it to be. He’s incredibly tall, lean, he dresses as boringly as the others, a T-shirt, the simplest blue jeans, and— and  _ clogs _ , but Freddie has the feeling he isn’t to be blamed. He makes him feel weird things, warmth when he sees him, cold when Freddie realises Smile isn’t playing that evening and he won’t get to watch the mysterious guitarist, he has a tingly feeling in his throat every time he sees him, he’s never felt anything like that before.

  
  
  


When the music stops and the whole band goes backstage, Freddie follows to where they’ve gone. He at least needs to tell Tim he’s been there one time. He convinces himself that it’s the only reason he’s going to see them. He takes his glass with him, alcohol dripping over the edges each time he takes a step. People around him start talking after a minute or two, Freddie can hear the critiques, some people loving the music, others thinking of how boring the show was. It brings a small, content smirk to Freddie’s lips. He eventually sees the band, a couple meters away from him. He almost decides to walk back to the bar, anxiety hitting him when he sees the men talking to each other. He hates to intrude. But he’s also tired of fearing and anticipating every conversation, he’s fed up with his anxiety so he decides to walk towards them. 

“Tim!” He exclaims, throwing one arm up before hugging him with the same arm, probably wetting a bit of Tim’s T-shirt with his drink. He’s genuinely happy to see him since he’s the only one he knows in the whole building. 

“You’ve come,” Tim replies fondly before detaching himself from Freddie awkwardly when it’s been almost a minute and it seems Freddie will never let go on his own. 

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, darling,” Freddie jokes before taking a sip from his glass, a bit of liquid courage, what he always needs if he wants to be able to talk properly with strangers. 

He  _ almost _ forgets that the other guys are there before Tim decides to introduce him to them. “Guys, this is my friend from Ealing, Freddie Bulsara,” he says, turning to the two musicians. 

“Mercury,” Freddie corrects, rolling his eyes, feigning confidence. “Freddie Mercury.” 

The drummer looks at him funnily, with a quirked grin, before introducing himself too, “I’m Roger Taylor,” he says, holding out his hand for Freddie to shake, but instead of taking it, Freddie hugs him quickly. He’s always liked to be held, to be hugged, he always liked contact. It was usually one of the reasons people mocked him, but he learned to not give a damn. 

He pulls away and the guitarist presents him. “Brian May,” he smiles, a soft, welcoming smile, and Freddie finds that he only wants to bury himself in the warmth of it. Brian accepts the embrace as much as Roger, but this time, Freddie’s heart goes crazy. He feels calm, snuggled against the chest of a complete stranger. He shouldn’t feel this way: it shouldn’t feel so good. He lets out a shaky quiet sigh after removing himself from the safety of Brian’s arms. Before he does something stupid, he starts talking again. 

“It’s nice meeting you, dears,” he smiles a toothy grin. And for one of those rare moments, he doesn’t feel the need to hide his teeth. “You were incredible out there. I’m impressed, I must say,” he says, a playful twinkle in his eye. He looks at Tim when he lets out a laugh. 

  
  
  


Another band has started playing; people are dancing, talking over the music, just listening. The lights are dimmed, like they always are at the end of the night. The three other men take a beer to the bar, and in contrast to just a few minutes before, he hesitates to join them, his shyness taking over. He hates when it does, but he can’t help it, he can’t help the walls building up sometimes. But when Brian looks at him with a smile, like an invitation, Freddie walks over to them. He takes another gin and tonic, spending what was supposed to be for his next meal. He’ll manage. 

He brings a seat beside the others, already taking a sip of his drink. He needs to drink it slowly, he doesn’t have any money left for another one. He doesn’t even have enough money for a bus back home, he’ll have to walk, for at least half an hour. He listens to the music while the other musicians talk, he doesn’t really mind, at least not too much. He’s too introverted, the one that never talks, only listens. He looks at Brian while he talks. He looks cute when he smiles, when his skin creases into happy lines at the corner of his eyes, around his mouth. 

He’s always loved beautiful things, he’s always been attracted to the simplest things in life, to the way the clouds formed in the sky, to the colours of the girl’s makeup he saw, to the curl of people’s hair, of  _ Brian’s  _ hair. It’s sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse, especially when he finds himself staring for too long, for an embarrassing amount of time. Thank god he’s quick enough to look away before Brian notices. 

When he finds a moment to talk, he does, “You were great, but you could be better, darlings,” he declares, like he’s not a complete stranger, coming up to them to criticise. It isn’t truly the case, but Freddie’s bad at first impressions. 

“Oh and what do you think?” Roger asks; the guy looks like he has a temper and Freddie decides he must be careful. Maybe it would be better if he stopped drinking, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, not in front of  _ Brian _ , who he doesn’t really know, but decides he really wants to get to know. Unfortunately his mouth is quicker than his brain after a bit of alcohol. 

“Firstly, I think your stage clothes are terribly dull,” he explains. He does curse himself in his head afterwards, but he’s gotten used to saying the most stupid things when he’s been drinking. 

“Do you?” Tim asks, but he knows Freddie. He’s in design at school, of course he thinks their stage wear is boring. And he finds everything that isn’t original  _ horribly boring, darling.  _

At this point, the music in the background is only a faint sound in Freddie’s ears. Firstly, because he can’t believe he got bold enough to criticise how they dress when he’s very clearly interested and curious to know the man behind the curls, the man behind the guitar solos. Also, he’s too concentrated on the looks Brian sends him to even think about music. Basically, everything is about Brian, and Freddie truly hates himself for it. Because Brian is obviously straight, Freddie always knows when someone is gay, and Freddie doesn’t even know if the guy would be okay or if he would beat the shit out of him if he knew he liked men. Not everyone is so accepting, even in London. 

“People don’t only come for the music, they come to see a show! They don’t come for three students staying at the same place for an hour, playing their instruments. People come in for something new, that they’ve never seen!”

He tends to get excited when talking about what he likes, about everything he wishes to do, about everything he dreams of. He doesn’t have many people to talk to about it that don’t roll their eyes at his antics. He wants to be the person doing the show, making people happy, dancing around, even though he can’t dance. He knows all those dreams he has are incredibly hard to achieve, but he won’t let them go, he’ll run himself dry until he finally gets to know what it feels like to be loved by thousands of people. He’ll be a legend. 

“Do you even play an instrument?” Roger scoffs. He seems offended, but he’s already pretty much drunk so Freddie can’t be sure: he already drank at least three beers, which is pretty much equivalent to the amount of money he got for tonight’s gig. 

“Of course I do, darling. My voice is my instrument,” he says, smiling. He remembers, young, singing, his mother telling him to be quieter, but with a fond smile on her face. He remembers not being able to help himself when he heard a song he knew the lyrics to. “And I also do some rubbish piano playing,” he explains with a shrug, self-deprecating, before taking the last sip of gin and setting the glass on the counter top, having to pass his arm just in front of Brian’s body. 

Brian’s been looking at him while he talked. He’s been looking at him, making Freddie nervous, making his heartbeat faster, making his hands sweaty. He looks at him with something in his eyes, and Freddie doesn’t know how someone can look at him like that. He doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind Brian looking at him like that forever, with that small smile on his face. 

He needs to calm down, or else he’s going to be buried way too deep way too quickly. They’ve only met each other an hour before, only exchanged a couple of words. 

But Freddie already longs for another of Brian’s hugs. 


	2. Chapter 2

Freddie hates his job. He’s always hated working, much to his father’s disappointment. He never even considered working in an office, in the middle of middle aged men, sitting down at a desk, looking at paperwork all day long. The thought is horrifying. He clearly wasn’t made to be a baggage handler either. The problem isn’t strength, energy - he’s used to working hard mentally, it’s as exhausting as any physical work - the problem is that Freddie has no interest in what he’s doing. His coworkers are horrible, rude and mocking. They know nothing about him, yet think they have the right to call him names, to laugh at his  _ silly _ dreams, at the impossible future he plans for himself. They don’t know him, yet they think they have the right to mock how he dresses—as if they have any sense of style. They’re assholes and they make Freddie want to quit his job, which he can’t do since he can barely afford to pay for his flat. 

School isn’t going much better. He’d hoped he could find comfort in what he likes to do, art, but instead it only adds onto the anxiety. His grades have been getting significantly lower because he can’t get an hour of sleep. It has been showing in his art. Freddie also suspects it’s because his teachers absolutely despise him since he apparently  _ never _ listens, but that’s another matter. Now, every time he starts drawing, it’s never for fun; it’s like he’s trying to prove something to himself: that what he does is good enough, that his teachers are just being horrible to him—like  _ everyone _ seems to be recently. 

His parents have been particularly annoying in the few last weeks. His father has been reproachful of everything he’s done, no matter how much Freddie told him he’s been doing his best. And he has been doing his best—to succeed at school, at work, to make his parents proud—but shouldn’t he be doing his best to make sure he doesn’t go mad with pressure first? That’s what his father doesn’t understand. It’s always,  _ “You never listen to us, Farrokh,”  _ and never  _ “We know you’re doing your best, we’re proud of you.” _ All he’s ever gotten from his dad was scowls, frowns, an endless record of moments of disappointment, rejection—never smiles, never a pat on the back, never  _ acceptance _ . He longs to know what it feels like to have a father that’s proud of him. 

He finds comfort in music, listening to his favourite vinyls, to the opera, and the rock, and the classical music. The hours of listening manage to calm him down, to make him stop thinking about everything that frustrates him. But then, when it comes to writing music, nothing. Inspiration comes, usually in the worst moments- during his classes, just before he goes to sleep at night- then when he sits down to write what he’s been listening over and over again in his head, nothing comes. He’s sat for hours with his notebook, writing the most ridiculous and unimaginative lyrics, hoping for something good to come out. Nothing ever seemed right.

He did write one song, one that he hopes no one ever finds , about the thing that made Freddie keep working, keep trying- about Brian. He’s thought about him during the last three weeks, reflecting about the night he met him, the hug they shared, the smile Brian sent him. He hates to realise how hung up he is on him. He’d been thinking about him day and night, when he got too defeated, wanting to give up on everything he’s worked so hard for. It’s been too long since he last saw him. He didn’t have time to go to Smile’s gigs between work and school, between the hour of sleep and the next work shift. He misses him, even only being able to watch him play. 

Sitting in the bus, trying his best not to fall asleep, not to miss his stop like he always does, he thinks of Brian: his fingers caressing the strings of his interesting looking guitar, it’s nothing like the guitars you see in music stores, biting his lip as he plays with much concentration, the way he brushes his hair back when it gets in his face. 

Oh god, he’s in love. 

At some point, he stops fighting the much needed sleep—the warm, calm and so inviting sleep. He lays his head on one hand, gets himself comfortable, he’ll be on the bus for a while anyways... He can just sleep a little bit, he’s just so exhausted—

“Freddie!”

He’s startled when someone calls his name. He lifts his head quickly in surprise, hitting his head on the  _ fucking _ pole that obviously had to be placed on the back of  _ his _ seat. 

He rubs his head, grunting at the sharp pain in his head — as if he needed this on top of everything. Of course someone had to interrupt him the exact moment he finally started to get some sleep. 

“Oh god, are you okay?” The person says and immediately Freddie recognises the voice. It’s Brian. Brian, _his_ _Brian!_ Not that he’s Brian’s anything. 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he whispers, even though it still very much hurts, but he’s already red enough in the face when he looks up at Brian’s face. Brian puts his own hand on the place where Freddie hit himself and Freddie feels like his face, that was freezing cold only a moment ago, now couldn’t be hotter. 

“I think you have a bump,” Brian says, looking guilty, a small, sad smile on his lips. 

“It’s okay,” Freddie mumbles, watching Brian as he sits just on the seat beside Freddie’s. His heart goes crazy, he’s already in too deep. 

After a minute or two of silence, Brian finally talks, “You’ve haven’t been to our last few gigs,” he says, looking - much to Freddie’s happiness - disappointed. 

It shouldn’t mean much, but if Brian had only seen Freddie once at their concerts, he wouldn’t have considered that Freddie would come to another— Brian noticed that he came to many of their concerts, he noticed him before even knowing his name, and Freddie’s heart really doesn’t want to behave at the thought. 

“I would have loved to come, but I’ve just been so incredibly busy with work and school, darling,” he replies, avoiding Brian’s gaze; he always gets so nervous with eye contact. 

“What do you study?” Brian asks and Freddie’s delighted by his interest. If Brian continues to be so sweet then Freddie will be in great trouble.

“Oh, nothing very interesting, dear.”

“Well, I’m interested,” Brian insists, and Freddie finally looks up at him from under his lashes, shyly. He usually hates when he isn’t confident, but it’s as if with Brian, he doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind being shy, at least he doesn’t mind as much as with other people. Usually, he needs to fully know the person in front of him, he needs to be sure that he won’t be mocked for being less bold, less confident. This time, it isn’t the same, he already trusts Brian to be different from the others, kinder. It’s as if he’s already known Brian for years. 

“I do graphic art,” Freddie explains, quietly. He can’t quite concentrate with Brian’s thigh rubbing against his, sending sparks through Freddie’s whole body. 

“I’m not really surprised.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” Freddie asks scandalised, smiling too. He manages to pull his lips over his teeth before Brian can even look at them- he wouldn’t want to traumatise the poor guy. 

“You just seem like an artsy kind of person,” he says, and his pinky finger, probably accidentally, brushes against Freddie’s leg, making him lose his breath completely. He does his best not to look at it, just so Brian won’t move away, but after a moment he can’t help himself and looks at the way Brian’s hand curls on his thigh, touches the fabric of Freddie’s tight trousers. 

Eventually, Brian moves away and Freddie can barely hide the disappointment that crashes over him. It’s nothing like he hopes for, nothing like all the scenarios Freddie keeps playing in his head, it’s just an accident. Of course Brian isn’t trying to make advances—he only touched his leg with his finger for less than a minute. 

“And what—“ Freddie cuts himself to clear his throat when his voice comes out hoarse. “What do you study?” He asks, trying to take his mind off the fact he’s head over heels for someone he doesn’t really know. 

“Astrophysics,” Brian says with a knowing smirk. 

“Please do enlighten me, darling.”

“To put it simply, it’s about the laws of physics that apply for planets, stars, and many other things.”

Freddie loves how Brian looks when he talks about it, he loves the sparkle in his eyes. He doesn’t want Brian to put it simply, he wants to hear every detail of it, even if he won’t understand a thing. But he can’t ask Brian that without looking like a lunatic. 

“It seems interesting.” With anyone else, Freddie would have laughed, not hesitating to say how boring it seems to be, but from Brian’s mouth nothing seems boring. 

“It really is,” Brian says, and Freddie’s happy that Brian seems touched by his interest. 

They stop talking for a few minutes, looking away from each other. Brian looks out the window of the moving bus, observing the streets as they pass by, looking at the rain falling down, at the light disappearing, the sun slowly hiding, leaving the city in the dark. Freddie forces himself not to look at Brian the way Brian looks outside: with concentration, with such interest and fascination. Instead, he puts his head back in his hand, closes his eyes, and tries to calm himself as the joy of thinking of Brian fills him: of how he seems interested in what Freddie says, of how he decided to come and join Freddie in the bus, when he could have walked past him. Freddie likes to believe Brian enjoys being in his company.

“You should come to our next gig, if you have some time,” Brian says, still looking out the window. Freddie’s eyes open again. When Brian looks at him, it’s with the same look in his eyes as there had been at the pub. Freddie still doesn’t know what it is, but it makes his heart flip, it makes him want to kiss Brian, not that he actually ever would. 

“As soon as I have less work to do, I will, darling,” Freddie replies, smiling shyly and his heart feels like it’s going to burst when Brian smiles wider at his response. 

“You’re different,” Brian says, out of the blue. Freddie wants to ask how he’s different—different from who, from what—but he doesn’t and just holds onto the hope that Brian says it in a good way, in a way Freddie wishes everyone could think of him. He lets himself believe that Brian likes him as much as he likes Brian. He lets himself believe that Brian doesn’t mind either side of his personality, neither the confident, nor the quiet. He hopes it won’t ruin anything, not that there’s really anything to ruin. 

  
  
  


He sends a smile, waving, when it’s finally time he walks out the bus. Even though he really wants to stay talking to Brian, he can’t afford to miss his stop. Brian waves back and Freddie promises himself that he’ll go to the next Smile gig, even if he has no free time—he’ll work until the early hours of the morning if he needs to. He’s not any less tired than he was before Brian found him, but at least now he has a smile back on his face. He feels happy, giddy. Brian’s adorably passionate expression from when he talked about astrophysics is engraved in his mind, so much so that when he arrives home he can’t help drawing his face, just for the pleasure of it. He’s really in love, so much more than he ever thought he could be. Deep down, he knows there won’t be anything more than a friendship with Brian, but he still imagines Brian holding, kissing him. If it helps him get through life more easily, then the heartbreak is worth it. 

He falls asleep, easily this time, for the first time in weeks, thinking of a head of unruly curls, a soft voice, the warmth of a leg against his, sparks in his body. It’s not much, but it’ll stay in his mind forever. It’ll be enough to get him through the time it takes before he sees Brian again. 


	3. Chapter 3

There’s something in the way Tim looks at Freddie, still talking to Roger and  _ Brian _ , that makes Freddie feel uneasy _.  _ They’re laughing—Brian’s laughing—and he looks lovely, like he always does, but Freddie doesn’t feel warm seeing him. He’s not sure what to do—if he really should walk up to them or if he shouldn’t. They’re having fun, he would probably ruin it. 

He put his work to the side to come see Brian play, because he’d asked him to come to the gig, and Freddie felt like Brian wanted him to be watching from the audience. In the middle of working on his new painting, he got dressed, decided to come see Smile. He almost left coloured brushes to become unusable because of the remaining paint on them, before he realised he doesn’t have money to buy new ones. He took a while to find something good to put on, something that Brian would like—as if he looks at Freddie like he’s anything else than a groupie. He put on makeup, frowning at every little mistake, cursing himself when he sees how late it already is. He’d been minutes away from missing the beginning of the gig. 

He’d seen Brian smiling at him, looking up from his guitar, seeing him close to the stage. Freddie’s heart had beat out of his chest, delighted to see Brian happy because he was there. 

He feels foolish now, looking at the three men talking exactly like those who Freddie heard whispering  _ ‘Shut up, Bucky’s coming’ _ , laughing at him when his back was turned, when they thought he was far enough away to not hear them. The stinging pain of the words—all the jokes that were never funny. 

He ignores the horrid feeling in his gut and walks over. He’s gotten through harder things than this in his life. He can handle a bit of disappointment, embarrassment. He notices how they stop laughing when he’s near enough, how Tim kicks Roger’s shin. Freddie hates it, he hates every second of it. He feels so humiliated, and he doesn’t even have any idea what they were saying. He just knows, deep in his heart, that they were talking about him, and that it wasn’t something he, himself, would be laughing at. 

“Hello, darlings!” Freddie exclaims, his head high, chin up, confident, or at least looking confident. “What were you laughing about?” He asks, doing his best to act casual, like he doesn’t know they were laughing at  _ him _ . 

Brian sends him a small smile. He almost looks apologetic, and Freddie knows the answer. 

“Oh, nothing really important,” Roger answers, taking a drag of his cigarette. He looks red in the face, but it could just be from the lighting.

Freddie stares at them one by one. He’s being quick, but it feels like he’s taking hours, especially when he looks at Brian. He feels his heart bursting, but not in a good way. He never wants to feel it again. He’d promised himself he would never let something like this happen again. 

“You guys were great tonight,” he croaks out, ignoring the way a lump forms in his throat. They all murmur their thanks, and with a final smile, Freddie turns and walks away, fighting back all the emotions that want to explode out of him. 

He’s angry at himself for always being so hopeful, at people for being so unfair with him, for  _ always _ putting him to the side. And he can’t help the tears prickling in his eyes, as much as he fights them; he’s tired of the never ending cycle of friendships that don’t last, that always end when people decide they don’t need him. 

He hates never belonging. 

  
  
  
  


He never liked violence, even though he boxed as a boy. He’d been good at throwing the hardest punches, at letting out all his anger, at getting all the frustration out of him through the sport—the only sport he ever really liked as a child. Though he’d always regretted it afterwards; he regretted hurting someone, making them go through the pain he’d been through and knew was horrible. He’d always wanted to go and apologise to his adversary, but didn’t when he thought of what the person would say, when he thought that they probably hated him. 

He’s never taken being hated well. 

Tonight, he’s starting to feel angry. He dried the tears in his eyes before they could even slip out. He looked at himself in the mirror, judgmental, promising himself not to cry again, not to show any of this ever affected him. He told himself to act strong, to straighten his back and pretend as if nothing happened. Now he feels angry. 

Or at least he’s felt angry until some guy decided to block his way, call him a fag, steal his coat—his  _ most _ beloved coat—and throw a punch at him, hitting exactly where Freddie used to hit his adversaries: just under the left eye, on the cheekbone. If he’d been thinking clearer, he would have wondered if it was revenge from someone he’d fought before. It wasn’t, obviously, but it wouldn’t have changed much anyway. The guy hit him hard enough in the stomach to make Freddie lose his balance, pain striking through him when he lands on the pavement. 

As if his night wasn’t going badly enough. As if he wasn’t already hating his life enough. 

He decides to stay on the ground for longer, against the exterior wall of the club. There aren’t many people around, which is logic because it’s freezing cold, colder than usual at this time of the year. He’s dizzy, and tired. He wants to go to bed, to his comfortable and warm bed, and forget about tonight. 

“Freddie?”

As always, the same voice, the voice that usually makes Freddie happy, but now makes his heart hurt more than his body does. 

Then gentle hands, the same as the ones on the bus: on his head, searching for a bump; on his thigh, accidentally. 

When Freddie’s courageous enough to look at Brian, he seems concerned, just like last time they talked. But now he seems even more concerned—Freddie’s not sure why, he didn’t seem to care much about him back in the pub. 

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Freddie manages to nod his head, slowly, because he’s feeling the start of a headache and he doesn’t want to make it worse. He slides a hand in one of the pockets of his fur coat, panic rising in his chest when it’s empty—his wallet isn’t there, his wallet with his money  _ and _ his keys. 

“Fuck,” he curses, looking around on the ground, but there’s nothing, no sign of the wallet his mother gave him for Christmas. 

“He’s taken my wallet and the keys for my flat,” he explains, quietly, exhausted. 

“Come to mine for the night, until you figure out what to do,” Brian proposes, kindly—kinder than what Freddie had expected. But Freddie can’t possibly accept without the everlasting worry that Brian’s just being polite. 

“N-no, it’s fine, I’ll go—I’ll go to my parent’s, or something.” He looks away from Brian’s eyes—they’re too kind, Freddie can’t handle it. He has no idea how he’ll explain the bruise that is forming on his cheek to his parents, how he’ll explain having lost his keys, his money—not that there really was much of it. He’ll find some way, he always figures it out, somehow, even if it takes wandering around the house for hours before finally finding something to say. 

“Freddie, you can’t go to your parent’s looking like that,” Brian says, gently, like he’s trying not to offend, but still be firm. Like he truly cares about Freddie’s well-being. 

“Are you saying I look bad, darling?” Freddie teases, although he has no idea how he has the energy to joke around. 

“Oh I wouldn’t dare,” Brian playfully deflects. 

It makes Freddie’s heart feel a bit lighter. It doesn’t seem like Brian particularly hates him, maybe just needs to get used to him: to all his drama and his antics. 

“I’d like it,” Freddie starts, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I’d like it if I could come to yours. I don’t know how I’ll—you know, explain all this to my parents.” He barely dares to finish his sentence, scared to seem like he’s inviting himself to Brian’s place, even though Brian made it clear he could come. 

“Of course,” Brian whispers, a small smile forming on his lovely lips. Freddie hates the way his heart acts when it happens.

“Thank you, Brian,” Freddie says, quietly. 

Brian helps him up on his feet, carrying his coat for him, dusting the dirt off of it. Even though he does his best to ignore the pain that radiates off his body, he can’t keep a wince in when he gets up. If someone told him his stomach was torn into pieces, he would believe them. 

Still holding his hand, Brian looks at him, then at his boots, then back at him. “You can’t walk with those on,” he says, frowning, “you’re gonna hurt yourself even more.” 

“Well, I don’t have much of a choice,” Freddie points out, confused, but then he watches as Brian removes his shoes, his  _ clogs _ , laying his feet down on the pavement, and Freddie understands. 

“Brian, no, I can’t—you can’t give me your shoes,” he protests. Brian’s doing enough already, inviting him to his flat, when he clearly doesn’t have to. 

But Brian smiles, playfully. “It’s that or I’m carrying you. Your choice.” His voice is calm, controlled, and Freddie wishes he could be so careless, could say any of those things without the worry of offending someone, of saying too many words, of saying the wrong words. 

“Fine,” he says, finally, rolling his eyes as he bends down to remove his boots. 

Brian decides to carry them, much to Freddie’s protests: he’s been too sweet, it’s too much… Too much for Freddie’s heart, for what he truly deserves. 

“How do you even walk in those?” Brian laughs, observing the height of the heels. 

“It doesn’t matter if they’re comfortable, darling, they’re in style!” Freddie replies, putting on Brian’s clogs. They’re gigantic on his feet and he’ll probably trip in them, but it doesn’t matter, Freddie’s already happy enough just knowing they’re Brian’s. 

They start walking, and Freddie finds he doesn’t know what to say. He knows he should say something—to not appear completely boring—he should at least thank Brian for what he’s doing for him, but he’s scared of saying the wrong thing. He can’t afford to have Brian decide he shouldn’t come to his flat because he’s said too much. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. 

The streets are empty, dark, only the lampposts lighting up the city. Only a few lights from houses are on. It’s silent, and the more the silence lingers, the more nervous Freddie is. He’s always anxious, his chest tightening and his breathing becoming more difficult far too often for his liking. 

“Do you know why? Why that guy did this to you, I mean?” Brian asks, he sounds like he’s trying to be careful of what he says, like he doesn’t want to upset Freddie. 

“He just wanted my money,” Freddie replies, too quickly. So quickly that Brian glances at him, like he isn’t sure he should believe him. 

It isn’t really the truth, only part of it. But what Brian doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Freddie can’t risk it, he can’t say he’s gay when he’s not sure Brian would be okay with it. After all, even if he’s already fallen for Brian, he doesn’t know him much yet. He can’t just assume and realise he was wrong when Brian decides to hit him too. He seems too kind to do any of that, but Freddie can’t be sure. 

“Everyone keeps looking at your feet,” Freddie says, quietly giggling, trying to lighten up the mood. 

It helps, Brian laughs. “Well, they’re all missing something, it’s very comfortable in my opinion.”

They nearly miss the last bus of the night because Freddie feels bad Brian has to pay for him. He almost decides to walk to his parents’ again, but Brian pushes him on a seat, just before telling him not to hit his head on the pole behind him again. They manage to do the ride without a bump in the road—pun intended. 

It’s only when they’re outside Brian’s flat that Freddie truly wants to run away. Because he realises that Brian doesn’t live on his own, but with Roger and Tim—the guys who seemed to have a lot of fun mocking him from afar, only hours before. 

“Are you sure I should come in?” He asks, feeling an unpleasant pain in his chest when he looks at the door of the flat that Brian’s  _ already _ unlocking. “I mean, shouldn’t you make sure they’re okay with me being there?”

“Of course they’re okay with it, Fred. They already know you,” Brian replies, reassuringly. 

Ignoring his anxiety, Freddie’s heart explodes at the nickname Brian gives him. 

He gives in and enters the flat, removing the clogs as soon as he’s in. He wouldn’t want to seem impolite. 

He watches as Brian removes his coat and goes straight to what Freddie assumes is the kitchen, he comes back with a glass of cold water and Freddie takes it with a small thank you. 

“Will you need help cleaning your face?” Brian asks as he takes a large sip of water. 

“No, I should be fine. Can I use your shower? It would make it a bit easier.”

“Of cou—“

“Oi, Brian! You’ve finally invited a girl over?”

Freddie can’t see him yet, but he recognises Roger’s voice, anyone would. 

When he finally comes into view, he realises that it isn’t a girl, but Freddie, his eyebrows shoot up under his dirty blonde hair. 

“Oh, hi, Freddie,” he says, embarrassed, “What happened to your face?” He asks, ignoring what he’s said just before. Apparently he’s ignoring what he’s also been saying hours before, because he doesn’t look mocking. Maybe Freddie’s been paranoid all along. He hopes that’s the case. 

“Oh, well some guy punched me and stole my wallet,” Freddie says, trying to sound careless. He laughs, but there’s nothing funny. 

“Are you oka—“

“I’m fine, darling. A shower and I’ll be as fresh as a daisy!”

Roger nods, awkwardly, and Freddie wonders if he’s said too much this time. Brian clears his throat and Freddie realises he’s been staring at Roger, who has started looking at Brian strangely, like he’s trying to tell him something with his eyes. 

“I’m gonna go help Freddie with the shower,” Brian says and starts walking towards what Freddie thinks is his bedroom. Freddie sends Roger a subtle smile and follows Brian. 

He enters what indeed is Brian’s bedroom. It smells of him, looks like what Freddie expected it to. His covers are dark blue, with white stars on it. It makes Freddie smile, because this is so  _ Brian.  _ There are dozens of books on the shelves, about music and space. 

Brian hands him a pile of clothes—pyjamas to wear, and a towel. 

“You can wear that after you shower, so you’re a bit more comfortable than in those tight trousers,” Brian says jokingly. 

“Thank you,” Freddie replies. 

He turns around, ready to go to the shower, in the direction Brian pointed. But then he stops in his tracks. He needs to ask, now, or else he’ll never gather up enough courage to talk about it. He turns back, and Brian’s still looking at him. 

He opens his mouth to speak, to tell Brian that he doesn’t know what it feels like, what it feels like to always be the outsider, the one laughed at. But he doesn’t say anything, because he wouldn’t want Brian to find him more annoying than he probably already thinks he is. 

Maybe, if he manages to not be too much, maybe Brian will like him more. 

He turns around and walks to the bathroom, closes the door behind him, bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from letting out the tears that he’s held back. 

He knew he shouldn’t have said anything, that he shouldn’t have been so critical, because it always ends up this way. It’s always too much for everyone. They probably already hate him, and he’ll be alone all over again. 

He starts the water and allows himself to cry, buried under the loud noise of the stream. He can always pretend his tears are only water drops from the shower head. 

  
  


He’ll be fine. 

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t have the courage to look at Brian, so he stays with his back to him, tense all over, breaths short and insufficient. He doesn’t want to risk colliding a limb with Brian, for fear that he will think he’s trying to make advances in the middle of the night, taking advantage of his kindness. He really doesn’t want Brian— _ Brian— _ to think that of him. 

There’s a deep ache, just below his sternum, sharp and horrible. It intensifies when Freddie thinks of tonight, of Tim’s mocking laugh, and Brian of  _ all _ people, laughing with him. 

He tried so hard to ask Brian if they truly were laughing about him—he almost did. The words almost left him before he realised that he doesn’t want to know, that he has a good idea of what they were saying and he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle the truth, especially out of Brian’s mouth. He’d been scared of Brian answering, as mocking as he seemed to be earlier, with no apology,  _ “you can’t take a joke, can you?”. _ He’s too weak to handle that sort of thing, he wouldn’t have been able to keep the repressed tears in. 

Sleep never comes. He tries to concentrate on one thing—a story maybe, or a song—but it doesn’t help. He ends up thinking about other things, the habitual things: work, school, his family... Brian, Brian,  _ Brian.  _ He turns himself on his back when staring at the patterned wallpaper—yellow with flowers in a horrid brown colour—doesn’t make him any more tired. At least now, there’s the slightly chipped paint on the ceiling to look at. Freddie turns his head sideways to look at Brian—he can’t help himself, even though he’s trying hard not to—and his heart jumps out of his chest when he sees Brian’s face turned towards him. There’s a curly strand of hair across his face and Freddie has to force himself not to put it behind Brian’s ear. 

He’s just as beautiful when he sleeps: relaxed, soft features, lips barely parted, letting out tranquil breaths. At that moment—or at any moment, really—Freddie doesn’t want to be angry at him for what he’s done. Freddie just desperately wants to have the right to lay in his arms, head in the crook of his neck, against his warm chest. Theoretically, Freddie could do it, but only if he definitely wants to ruin the friendship he has with Brian. 

He only knows craving, needing… he barely knows what true affection is, what being loved unconditionally feels like. He’d been desperately searching for love that he couldn’t find when he’d been at boarding school, alone. His parents, teachers expected him to become someone better, to do things he could never achieve and thus he never got the chance to have someone be proud of him. He’d cried tears of frustration when receiving letters from his father, disappointed in him—exactly like he’d been when Freddie was home—because he wasn’t good enough for his expectations. He’d never be good enough for his father.

He has loved, he loves, he loves everything—from midnight snores, to midnight kisses—he’s always loved people’s mannerisms, loved character flaws. He loves everything—everything but what he truly needs to love first: himself. 

He loves fashion, beautiful clothes; he doesn’t like them on him. He loves unconventional smiles, crooked teeth; he hates his own. He loves people that find happiness in the simplest things, he hates how much he loves everything that surrounds him. He hates hating himself, but he can’t help it when he thinks about all the thoughts he has that he shouldn’t have; about Brian, what he wants from him, but can't have, about wanting rough with sculpted edges, instead of soft and delicate.

He eventually gets up from the bed, as comfortable as it is. He’s been staring at Brian for too long. Brian would be horrified to know Freddie was looking at him while he sleeps. 

He opens and closes the door of the bedroom as quietly as possible, wincing when it makes a horrible, strident noise. Thankfully, Brian doesn’t wake up. 

The flat is chilly, the kind of chilly that can only make one miserable, especially after feeling warmth radiating off someone else, warm with the comfort of it. Freddie assumes Roger is asleep, Tim too, and he doesn’t want to wake them up, have them despise him even further. He decides—even though he doesn’t truly want to—to leave his coat on the hanger. It’s really the only thing that could keep him warm—but he doesn’t deserve that kind of luxury—and he goes out the front door, already regretting his decision when cold hits him. It won’t help him sleep, but maybe freezing himself to the core will keep him awake, make the bags under his eyes lessen. 

He can only dream. 

Dreams! That’s what his life is made of. Dreams that never actually turn out to be reality. Dreams crushed under someone’s foot, between someone’s hands—sometimes by his own hands, controlled by the fear of failure or discouragement when he realises he isn’t good enough to fulfill any of them. 

The door opens with a creak, then there is the sound of light steps: socked feet against cement. A body sits beside him, and Freddie looks slightly to the side, recognising the blonde hair and soft girly features; small red lips, a delicate nose, ocean blue eyes with long lashes. He offers Freddie a cigarette without a word, only a gesture of the hand. 

“I don’t—I don’t smoke. It’s bad for my singing,” Freddie whispers. He does smoke, from time to time, in social situations, but knows smoking now will only make him feel worse later. 

“You sing?” 

Freddie tries his best to ignore the stinging in his heart that the reply brings, because he’s sure he has brought it up before. Roger was drunk, he knows that, but he’d like to believe that he isn’t that forgettable a person. Apparently, he is. 

“In my free time,” he answers, watching as Roger lights up his cigarette with a dexterous hand. 

“That’s nice,” Roger replies. Freddie wonders if he’s uninterested or if it’s just the way he always looks, bored. He’s probably uninterested. 

There’s an awkward silence for a while, the kind of silence where Freddie searches intensely in his head to find what to say, to make it less awkward. 

“I thought you were leaving,” Roger finally says. 

He almost seems to mind, and Freddie isn’t sure why he would. It’s not like Roger likes him very much. 

“No, I just—I couldn’t sleep,” he decides to say.

He takes a deep breath and talks, because he needs to, eventually, and it’s probably the best moment to do it, while Roger is relaxed and not drunk, looking like he actually will listen to what he says. 

“I’m sorry for what I say sometimes,” he starts, “For being so critical of what you guys do, you know.” Roger keeps looking at him and it’s incredibly nerve-wracking, because he has no idea what his expression means. 

He knows how annoying he can be sometimes, but he often can’t help himself, can’t stop his stupid mouth—the one that ruins everything. He doesn’t want to end up alone again, even if they don’t come anywhere near being best friends, he just wants—deeply—to be someone’s something, to have people to come to when it’s a lonely day, when everything just gets too much. 

“I’m just passionate, and I tend to get  _ too _ passionate and want everyone else to be as passionate as me and—I’m sorry, I don’t want to seem like I think I’m better than you or something.”

“I don’t mind it, personally,” Roger says, and he even sends Freddie a smile.

He already feels slightly lighter, at least now Roger doesn’t seem to hate him. 

“I think it’s mostly Tim that has an ego that’s too big to accept any criticism,” Roger exclaims, amused. He lets out a laugh, shaking his head, like he’s remembered something funny. Freddie hopes it isn’t what he is thinking of.

“You and Brian are really talented. If you dressed more fashionably and you put on a show, so many more people would come see you!”

“And what about Tim?” Roger asks, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. 

“He’s good,” Freddie answers, but he senses that Roger knows that’s not all. 

“But?”

But Freddie wishes he could be in his place: he knows he would be better than Tim in Smile. Tim seems to think he’s the leader of the band, when there shouldn’t even be a leader in a band. It annoys Freddie. Tim doesn’t deserve either Brian or Roger, who clearly should consider making Freddie their singer. But it’s just another hope, another dream that will end up crushed like they always do. 

“Personally, darling, I don’t think he’s good enough for either of you—he seems to think he’s better than both of you!”

“And I think  _ I  _ would be a better singer for Smile.”

Here he is again, acting too bold, unable to shut his own mouth when it’s clear it would be better if he did himself the favour of not talking. Now Roger probably hates him, if he didn’t before. 

“I really like you.”

Roger smiles, and it looks genuine, and Freddie wishes with his entire heart that it’s the truth. Because this is truly him; it’s not a persona he puts on, it’s not him saying everything he knows Roger would like, mirroring him and his interests. It’s truly him, what he wants to say, what he is like—the side he never usually shows to anyone, terrified of rejection. Somehow, he trusts Roger. He trusts him to be saying the truth, to be nice to him, unlike how people usually are. 

“I like you too, darling,” Freddie answers, honestly, genuinely. 

His heart beats slightly quicker at the thought of having made a friend—a real friend—not one that will take advantage of him, of his kindness and willingness to help, of his cursed generosity. It’s not the same kind of acceleration of his heartbeat as the one that happens when he talks to Brian, but it still feels good. He feels happier than he has in days, he almost feels like there’s hope, but not the kind of hope that gets stomped on, the kind of hope that lingers for a while, that doesn’t go away so easily. 

They don’t talk again, but Roger sits closer to Freddie, or, at least, it seems like he does. They stay a while on the stairs, in the cold—the one that used to be a source of misery but that Freddie doesn’t even notice anymore, because he feels warmer, happier. Eventually, Roger finishes his cigarette and gets up to go back inside, looking at Freddie like he expects him to follow. So Freddie follows him, and goes back to Brian’s bedroom as quietly as possible. His limbs are stiff and still frozen so he enjoys the warmth of the blanket, of Brian’s body nearby. 

“Wondered where you’d gone.”

Freddie jumps, surprised that Brian is awake—he looked very much asleep when Freddie went to bed, only  _ minutes _ earlier. He turns around to look at Brian, his heart beating out of his chest when he sees his sleepy face smiling at him, hair messier than ever. 

“I didn’t know you were awake,” he answers nervously, turning red when he notices how Brian is looking at him; with sweet, loving eyes. 

Brian wraps his fingers around his arm, his hand warm and gentle. 

“You’re freezing cold, Freddie, come here,” he whispers, sliding his hand down Freddie’s arm to take his hand, like it’s something casual, like they always do this. 

Freddie wonders why Brian is acting so sweet with him all of a sudden, inviting him to get closer. __

“What?” 

“Let me warm you up some.”

Carefully—holding his breath, afraid Brian will change his mind—he slides closer to him, already warmed up when Brian wraps an arm around him. Brian doesn’t let go of his hand, and Freddie gathers all his courage and rests his head on his chest. He finally relaxes when Brian doesn’t pull away. 

“Thank you,” Freddie whispers shyly. 

Brian squeezes his hand in answer. 

It’s comfortable, it’s like Freddie fits perfectly in Brian’s arms, like this is meant to be. His heart is beating quicker each minute, especially when he feels Brian’s own heartbeat against his hand. He can’t really believe Brian lets him this close, he surely doesn’t know that Freddie’s gay. He won’t want to touch him like this when he realises. But it doesn’t matter for now, Brian doesn’t know.

This is just him being a good friend, nothing more. He’s just an incredible friend.

He keeps thinking, eyes studying the ceiling, as he listens to Brian’s breathing even out beside him. Eventually, though, Freddie’s eyes slip closed and he sleeps easily through the soft morning sunrise. Finally, he finds sleep without crying just before he falls into unconsciousness. Finally, his sleep is undisturbed by nightmares.

Tonight wasn’t so bad, after all. 

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The sunlight brushes against Freddie’s exposed skin, warms up the places where Brian’s body isn’t touching his own. There’s immediate happiness that comes with waking up in the arms of someone you fancy, soft but intense on the ends. Brian’s hair tangles with Freddie’s, crazy brown curls against black unstraightened waves. Freddie’s heart beats quickly at the realisation that their limbs are intertwined, he likes the way Brian’s pale skin stands out against his tanned skin. He feels a giddy smile forming on his face as he snuggles closer to Brian, like this is something friends do, he hopes Brian won’t end up regretting it when he wakes up and realises that there’s a body in his arms. He hopes that this means something more than it just being Brian wanting to warm him up. Somehow, Freddie can’t believe Brian would act this way with Roger or Tim. 

He looks down at the T-shirt and the trousers he’s wearing, Brian’s; they’re way too big on him, but he doesn’t mind, he likes it, it’s like he’s wearing clothes from his boyfriend. He wishes it could be the case, that Brian truly was his boyfriend. 

The warmth of the covers combined with the heat from Brian’s skin is way too much, but Freddie doesn’t plan on moving any time soon: he’ll stay there as long as he can, because he knows this isn’t something that he’ll have often, even less every morning. Hopefully, this isn’t the last time. Brian is a delight to look at when he’s asleep, the way his skin creases between his eyebrows and then smoothes out moments later, the way he mumbles incomprehensible words now and then, the way he breathes through his mouth, spreading warm air on Freddie’s forehead. His heartbeat is calm and soothing, like a sign that all of this is truly happening, that Brian is truly holding Freddie in his arms during his sleep shamelessly. Freddie never wants it to end. He’s never experienced something that feels so innocently loving. 

He closes his eyes when he feels Brian shift, breathing getting slightly louder, he guesses Brian has woken up. He stays as still as possible, nervously waiting for Brian to move. Maybe he’ll get up, horrified at what he’s done, ask Freddie to leave, never wanting to see him again; or maybe he’ll say nothing, but look at Freddie in ways he can’t bear: disgusted, incredulous that he actually cuddled with another man. 

Freddie has to squeeze his eyes shut tightly to hold in the tears when Brian moves—not away from him, but closer to him—and presses his face against Freddie’s; nose on his temple, lips so close to his cheek. He could turn his head only inches and their lips would touch, but Freddie stops himself before doing it, aware Brian is supposed to think he’s asleep. He can’t truly be sure this is what Brian wants, maybe he’s just an insanely cuddly friend. 

Much to Freddie’s disappointment, Brian eventually pulls away, delicately, trying to not wake him up. Freddie opens his eyes a crack to look at the curves of Brian’s back when he puts on a new T-shirt, when he removes his trousers, then his underwear—Freddie closes his eyes before he can see anything, he’s not that insane. He’s surprised Brian is unashamed enough to undress in front of him, even though he’s supposedly asleep. He almost breaks out a smile when he feels another blanket be laid on him: Brian is wrapping him in blankets. 

When Brian is out of the bedroom, Freddie finally opens his eyes again and smiles wildly under both his hands, curling his toes in heartwarming excitement. He’s in love, he’s so deeply in love, probably  _ too _ deeply in love. 

He waits a few minutes before he’s finally recovered and then removes the covers from his body, goosebumps rising on his skin at the cold of the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to breathe, to calm himself, else he’ll get too hopeful: he’ll imagine Brian is truly making advances on him. He’ll just end up disappointed, and he doesn’t want that to happen even though he has a feeling he will be hurt no matter what he does, how hard he tries. 

The books scattered on shelves catch his eyes, and he can’t help himself. He takes one of them, assumes it’s about astrophysics since that’s what Brian told him he studied and because there’s a galaxy on the cover, and opens it. Without a surprise, half of the words are incomprehensible, he can’t read a sentence without getting confused. Maybe he could try and learn some words, bring them up in a conversation. He could show Brian he’s more intelligent than he looks, that he’s genuinely interested in what he does and talks to him about. 

Maybe that would make Brian like him?

Something falls on his shoulder and he jumps with a yelp. He closes the book in his hands and turns around, for a moment scared of it being a spider, but he realises it wasn’t when he hits someone’s body,  _ Brian’s  _ body. He takes a step back, avoiding eye contact, feels his face heat up in embarrassment. 

“Were you trying to steal that?”

“What?! No! N-no of course not, I was just looking at it! I swear—I was going to put it back on the shelf!” Freddie answers rushed. He can’t have Brian think he’s stealing his things, that’s not going to help him seduce him at all. Not that he’s trying to seduce him. 

“Freddie,” Brian says, a small smile on his lips. 

“I wouldn’t steal your things! Or anyone’s actua—“

“Freddie!” Brian laughs, putting his hand on Freddie’s shoulder again. “I was only joking.”

“Oh,” Freddie’s whispers, catching his breath. Brian is trying to kill him, he’s sure of it. He cuddles him during his sleep, then scares him to death, and then makes him assume he thinks Freddie’s stealing from him. His poor heart can’t take all of that in only a few hours. 

“Now, do you want some breakfast?” 

“Yes, I’m absolutely famished, darling,” he answers, following Brian when he walks out of his bedroom, heading to the kitchen. 

He watches as Brian takes the kettle from the countertop and pours the boiling hot water into two teacups. He looks insanely good, putting tea bags in both of the cups. He turns around, tea in both his hands and puts them on the island. 

“We don’t have any other tea, I’m afraid. I hope Earl Grey is fine. How do you take it?” Brian says, slightly embarrassed that they don’t have much to drink or to eat. 

“Earl Gray is my favourite! Just a dash of milk and two sugars, dear.”

Freddie’s fascinated with the concentration on Brian’s face when he pours the slightest milk into the cup and careful drops in the sugars, making ripples appear on the surface. He stops staring as soon as Brian looks up at him, afraid he’s been caught. 

“I hope you like toast with butter because we’ve got nothing else,” Brian mutters awkwardly. 

“I love toast!” Freddie exclaims, a bit too enthusiastic, before clearing his throat. He doesn’t like toast, but he would never admit it to Brian who’s already being so much nicer to him than he needs to be, than what Freddie deserves. 

Brian eventually sits beside him and they eat in silence. Freddie accidentally brushes his arm against Brian’s and his whole arm tingles, like electricity is going through him, travelling all the way to his heart with incredible speed. Not that any of this means anything. 

“Good morning, lovebirds!” 

Roger walks in, eyes wide with happiness, and Freddie understands why when some girl walks out of his bedroom and out of the flat. 

Brian scowls at him. Freddie’s not surprised, but it’s still not pleasant to have the guy he likes to look as though it would horrify him if they were anything more than friends. He knew Brian wouldn’t want anything more, there’s no reason he should be disappointed. He’s used to being rejected. 

“Good morning, Roger,” Freddie responds, smiling—or at least trying to. He truly hates his stupid heart. 

“Have you got classes?” Roger asks and for a moment Freddie’s thoughtful, before cursing himself, realising he has a  _ project _ to do, due in  _ two  _ days. 

“Fuck!” He curses, and Brian looks up at him, a twinge of worry in his bright hazel eyes. 

“I’ve got a project I need to hand in in two days,” he explains, putting his head in his hands, groaning. He’s fucked, he’s absolutely fucked. He needs to have a good grade for this project or he’ll most certainly fail this class. His father will be pissed if he learns about it, he’ll be disappointed. Especially after how much Freddie fought with him to go in an art program. 

He can’t even go to his flat yet because there’s still a huge bruise on his cheekbone and going to his parent’s for the spare key isn’t an option in his state. 

“Have you started it?” Roger asks, he stops chewing on his piece of toasted bread with butter spread on it. They really don’t have anything more than that. 

“I’ve done nothing,” Freddie mutters. 

It’s not that he didn’t want to do it—well there’s a bit of that to it, but it’s not the reason why he hasn’t done anything—he’s just so uninspired these days, too overwhelmed by the exhaustion that comes with working on homework until the sky is black with stars scattered in it, stars that remind him of Brian each time. He’s just been unmotivated, getting out the right supplies only to look at the fresh paint out of the tube dry, at the shadows moving across his canvas as the hours pass by. 

His father is right, he’s too lazy for his own good. And now he’s going to pay for it. 

“What does it need to be?” Brian asks carefully, probably sensing how discouraged Freddie is. 

“It needs to be some drawing or painting—the fucking theme is architecture.”

“Don’t you have some supplies at your flat?” Roger points out. 

“I don’t have keys to my flat. My parents have a spare, but look at my face, do you think I can show up to their door like that?”

“Well we’ve got some charcoal from the fireplace,” Roger suggests, pointing with his thumb in the direction of the living room. “And probably some paper somewhere?”

Freddie smiles at him from through his fingers and Roger understands, fleeing from the room immediately. They barely know each other, but it’s like they already understand each other perfectly. 

“It’s gonna be okay, I’m sure Roger will find some things you’ll be able to use,” Brian says, trying to reassure him, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know the stake of this. 

“I really,  _ really _ can’t fuck this up,” Freddie says and he hates how wobbly his voice is. He’s just tired, he was happy only minutes before, but it seems there’s always something that’s waiting for the good moment to ruin it, to ruin the few drops of happiness he gets to have. 

“You’re not going to fuck it up, Freddie, you’re so talente—“

“You’ve never even seen me draw,” he cuts him off, laughing humorlessly, feeling like being a jerk for a moment. He has the right to be, at least from time to time. 

“I can just tell,” Brian protests, smiling down at him, and he’s just so adorable like that, it’s cruel, painfully cruel. 

“I swear, if I don’t get this right, my father will fucking kill me.”

At this very moment, he feels like letting everything out, like explaining everything, from the sleepless nights to the deep ache in his heart each time he realises he can’t have Brian, that he can’t have  _ anyone _ . Because he’s always not enough, and sometimes—even worse—he’s too much. 

He looks up, opening his mouth to talk, even though he knows he’ll regret it, but he doesn’t even have the time to talk. 

There’s soft lips on his, the taste of butter and the electricity going back and forth between his lips and Brian’s.  _ Brian’s.  _ It’s Brian who’s kissing him, and Freddie’s not sure why Brian would want that, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t even think of complaining. 

“I’ve got paper!”

Quickly, Brian pulls away from him, as quickly as he approached his face to Freddie’s. Luckily, Roger isn’t in the kitchen yet, he only decided to yell when he was near them. 

Brian is avoiding Freddie’s gaze and Freddie concludes—with a churned stomach—that Brian regrets it already. He shouldn’t have kissed him back, he  _ knew _ it would happen. There’s not much to like about him. 

“Thank you, Roger,” Freddie tells him when he’s finally arrived, hugging him tightly, smiling even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

He works on his project for the rest of the day. Tim passes by him before going to classes, complimenting the messy drawing. The charcoal isn’t exactly the easiest thing to draw with. He still blushes when Roger makes a comment to Tim about how talented he is. 

Freddie ignores Brian’s looks during the day, he shrugs him off with a smile when he asks in a whisper if they can talk. Freddie’s not oblivious, he knows what Brian wants to talk to him about, but he prefers to live thinking Brian likes him instead of having to hear from Brian’s mouth that this was a mistake, that he thinks they should never talk again. It’s easier to ignore the whole mess for the moment, even though he’ll face to face reality eventually. 

He stays awake until a ridiculous hour of the night, perfecting his artwork to the smallest detail. Once finished, he hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should go sleep on the couch, but Brian hasn’t told him he doesn’t want him in his bed  _ yet.  _ So he goes to Brian’s bedroom nervously, trying to be as quiet as possible. Brian is still wide awake, looking up at the ceiling, and Freddie wonders for a moment if he’s had trouble sleeping just like him. 

Taking all his courage, he slips under the covers, Brian barely acknowledges him before turning sideways, meeting his eyes. In an act of boldness, holding his breath carefully, Freddie places himself closer to Brian, relieved when he feels an arm wrapped around his body. 

Quietly, he looks up at him. 

“Did you mean it?” He asks in a tiny voice, throat tight in fear. 

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

It’s so easy to get lost in the comforting warmth of Brian’s lips. Especially when it’s late and all Freddie wants is a bit of affection, a bit of love. He’s been nervous all day, avoiding Brian’s eyes because he couldn’t help but believe that it was the last time Brian would ever look at him. He’s been dreaming of something like this—acceptance and simple perfection—for too long for it to stop so quickly. 

Brian tries to pull away, maybe to breathe—most certainly to breathe—but Freddie doesn’t let him. Because even though Brian kissed him just after he asked if Brian meant to kiss him, maybe he doesn’t actually want him, maybe he’s just realised how stupid he’s being; kissing Freddie, of all people, kissing Freddie when he could kiss some pretty girl instead, someone much more attractive, someone that wouldn’t ruin his life with having to hide, with having to give up on the idea of a family. Freddie can’t help thinking about it, even though he knows that if Brian chose to be with him, he’d never love him enough to want him for years. Even less for the rest of his life. 

“Freddie,” Brian mumbles, lips still attached to Freddie‘s. 

Freddie lets him go, he has to face reality at some point, it’s better to do it now, get it over with, deal with the heartbreak afterwards. 

It’s easier to handle the truth with eyes cl:ed: he’s still able to hear all that hurts, but doesn’t have to deal with tears as much, doesn’t have to look up at the person he loves with the knowledge he can’t have him, that he’s made up all these scenarios of a perfect life in his head, even though he knows he can’t have that. 

Brian’s making it hard, acting incredibly sweet, brushing a strand of hair behind Freddie’s ear. He pulls him closer, putting his hand on Freddie’s cheek, resting it there. Freddie‘s skin tingles under it. Freddie finds he’s unable to breathe. 

“I like you, a lot, Freddie,” Brian whispers, his voice so gentle that Freddie gathers enough courage to open his eyes. He ignores their dampness and just looks at Brian in disbelief. 

“But I don’t want to rush this. I want to do this right,” Brian explains, he looks at Freddie like he’s precious, and it makes Freddie melt under his gaze. “I want us to take time, to have a proper date, just the two of us.”

Freddie smiles, not wide enough to show off his teeth—not  _ yet _ —but it’s still genuine. He strokes a finger against Brian’s chest lightly, biting his lip, trying so hard not to smile too much, but just the thought that Brian wants to take him on a date is so lovely that he can’t help it, revealing shyly his biggest insecurity. 

“Is  _ this, _ ” he says, referring to the fact they’re cuddling, trying to get his mind off how sweet Brian is with him, “too quick?”

Brian shakes his head, grinning, curly locks of hair flying everywhere. “Do you think it is?” He asks Freddie carefully, just like a gentleman. Freddie can’t believe he’s falling even further for him, he never thought it could be possible. 

“Not at all,” he answers, not giving Brian time to react before burying his head in Brian’s neck once again. Just like the night before, Brian wraps his arms around him, but this time it seems there’s even less hesitation. He rubs his fingers against Freddie’s back delicately and doesn’t stop until Freddie’s breath evens out and he’s asleep. 

  
  
  


Freddie realises, disappointed, that his bruise has faded significantly—it means one thing, that he can go to his parents’, that he can go get his keys and then go home,  _ away _ from Brian. The bruise wasn’t that bad at the beginning, but now it’s barely even present, a slightly yellow mark on his cheekbone—at least under a few coats of Roger’s concealer he’s found on the bathroom’s counter. It’s small enough to be hidden by his hair. Brian likes him, but he still shouldn’t overstay his welcome. It’s not like Brian lives on his own, he lives with Roger and Tim; who Freddie is still convinced hates him. 

“I think I should go,” he tells Brian, wearing a smile even though he’s saddened;he really doesn’t want to leave. “I have work tomorrow and I really need to hand in this fucking project.”

“Of course,” Brian says, and he takes Freddie’s hand almost shyly. “Could I have your number?” He asks, making Freddie’s heart burst. He’d never expected Brian would truly want him, but he’s starting to think that he does. 

Getting up from Brian’s bed, Freddie goes to the desk and takes a pen, removing the lid. He takes Brian’s hand, making his palm face the ceiling. For a second—before he realises it’s a bit weird—he looks at Brian’s hand nearly in awe, they’re long and slender and Freddie can’t help but think about kissing it, just one time, on the palm. He doesn’t, somehow, it feels too intimate. He eventually writes his number on his hand, and then closes it, as if there’s something in it. There’s nothing but his heart in the crook of Brian’s hand. His heart that he’s always too willing to give away easily, to anyone and everyone. This time, it’s special: he trusts Brian to take care of it properly. 

“Don’t wash your hands too quickly, darling,” Freddie jokes before getting up again and taking his project from the desk, holding it against his chest protectively. He‘s put at least five coats of Brian’s hairspray to make sure the charcoal doesn’t just fall off.

Brian accompanies him to the front door, watching as he puts on his coat, then his boots; this time he can’t put on Brian’s clogs so he’ll deal with the slight pain of one of his ribs he still feels because of what happened the other night. Brian suggests that he stays for breakfast, offers again and again, but Freddie protests: he has to give his drawing before noon and he knows if he stays a minute more, he’ll never leave. 

Brian hugs him, tightly, and whispers in his ear, “I’ll call you soon,” before letting him go. 

  
  
  


Freddie’s mood goes down as soon as the door of the flat closes behind him. He’s been so happy in Brian’s company that now it feels as if nothing could ever make him that happy again. He hopes Brian will keep his promise and will call him soon. He misses him already. He’s far too hung up on him, but this time he doesn’t care—though tonight it might be different—Brian seems to be hung up on him too. 

Freddie goes to class, solely to give in his work because he doesn’t pay much attention—or rather, none at all—to what the teacher is talking about. He could easily get out of class, pretend there’s a family emergency, but he doesn’t really want to leave now. He has to go to his parents’ and he’s not excited about it at all. He misses his sister, he misses his mother, he even slightly misses his father, but he doesn’t miss his parents’ comments about his career, about how much harder he needs to work. He just wants to go back to his place, have a nap, imagining having Brian’s arms around him again; Brian’s face against his, Brian’s lips against his. 

Unfortunately, when the class is finished, Freddie doesn’t have much of a choice. He can’t go to a coffee shop without money, he obviously can’t go back to Brian’s, and he doesn’t have other options. He’s not that desperate—he is, really, but he can always pretend he isn’t. 

He has to walk around his parents’ house ten times before he has enough courage gathered up in him to face them. He knocks on the door and puts on his brightest smile. 

For a moment, Freddie’s happy seeing his mother open the door. She smiles at him widely and takes him in her arms, the type of hugs she would give him after he’d hurt himself playing or after a fight with his father. 

“Oh I missed you, Farrokh,” she exclaims and Freddie suddenly feels cold. It’s always the same, it seems his parents are stubbornly insisting on calling him by his birth name even though he’s clearly told them his name’s  _ Freddie _ now. 

“I missed you too, Mama,” he responds because he hasn’t got much of a choice. He doesn’t want to have to deal with this today. 

“We haven’t seen you in so long, Moosh,” she sighs sadly, letting him go and standing to the side to let him enter. He notices his father isn’t sitting on the chair by the couch like he usually is when he’s home, which means he isn’t there. Freddie lets himself breathe for a moment. 

“It’s only been two weeks, Mama, and I’m very busy with school and work.”

He regrets mentioning it when he realises that she’ll comment on it. Fortunately, she doesn’t. 

After a long silence, or at least it feels like an eternity to Freddie. “I need that spare key for my flat. I lost mine yesterday,” he explains, lying slightly, trying to not have his mother ask too many questions. Besides, he can’t really tell her his has been stolen, she would make a fuss over it and would make him explain everything. 

“Of course,  _ beta _ , let me get it for you.”

She searches through some drawers in the kitchen for a minute before returning with the keys, jangling them in the air with a smile. 

“You’ll go make a copy of them, won’t you?” She asks, putting the keys in his hand and closing it around them just like Freddie did with Brian’s hand only hours ago. 

“I will, Mama, thank you.”

He gives her a kiss on her soft cheek and puts the keys in the pocket of his coat. Hopefully they’ll stay there this time. 

“Where did you sleep last night?”

Freddie’s smile freezes for a moment before he gets over it and answers, unflinching. “At some friends’ flat. They gave me their couch.”

He hopes she doesn’t know him well enough to know he’s lying, that he’s actually slept in a man’s bed, with the other man in it. Sometimes, his mother has this sixth sense, she knows everything, she knows every one of his secrets no matter how hard he tries to hide them. 

“You haven’t been in one of  _ those _ bars again, Farrokh?”

Her eyes have gone sharper, her voice slightly harder. Freddie doesn’t like when she acts like that, when after acting so sweet, she hardens, makes him feel like he’s a horrible son, makes him feel guilty for being who he is. It’s better than when his father does it, he’s nastier, harsher, and he always has this look on his face; lips pinched, nose up in the air, deep lines between his brows. He looks disappointed. No, more than disappointed, he looks ashamed of Freddie. 

“I haven’t, Mama. It was just a phase.”

It was never a phase, but his parents would never understand. They’d never understand—or at least try to—that this is who he is, who he always wanted to be, even when he brought a girlfriend to a family dinner. He tried explaining it before, he tried to tell them that he doesn’t want to marry some woman, and that it doesn’t mean they should treat him any differently. They’d been too stubborn, they’d been too hidden in their own selfish and unaccepting world. He’d stopped trying since. He’d just have to pretend for the time being, pretend that this was just a moment of his life he was over with. 

It hurts to know that his parents will never truly accept him, but he can’t really expect anything more. He‘s already accepted it—almost. 

“Good,” she says, smiling brightly again and Freddie’s heart clenches painfully. 

“Will you stay for a bi—“

“I have work in an hour,” he cuts her off. He doesn’t have work, but he doesn’t want to stay more time. He doesn’t want to see his father. 

“Oh, of course, beta,” she exclaims, leading him back to the front door. She kisses him on the forehead, and Freddie wishes she would kiss him even if she knew what the truth really was. 

“I’ll call soon, Ma,” he promises even though he knows he won’t. They’ll be disappointed when he doesn’t, but it isn’t anything new. 

“Love you, moosh,” she tells him before waving goodbye. 

“Love you,” he whispers back when the door is closed. He feels dangerously close to tears, but he won’t cry: he can’t give her that power. He can’t help but forgive her in some way, because she’s his mother and he loves her, he truly does, but he hates her at the same time. 

He won’t cry because of that. He’s strong, stronger than any of the things his parents could tell him. He’s stronger than people think and he’ll prove it to everyone. 

  
  


He’s strong, but he’s not strong enough to not let it ruin his day. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I may be a bit too addicted to cuddly Maycury scenes, but forgive me, I can't help myself... I hope you liked this new chapter :)


	7. Chapter 7

_ “Now there's no welcome look in your eyes when I reach for you” _

The music resonates through the room, bounces off every wall. Freddie has put the song on a seventh time, shame filling him. He's being ridiculous. His whole state is ridiculous. He’s been living off of the worst tasting pea soup and glasses of the cheapest wine he’s found. It’s not like he has much choice with how short he is on money. He knows his mum would give him money, but he hasn’t dared going back to his parents’ house, not after last time; he doesn’t want to have to realise even further how much he’s disappointed them. 

_ “And now you're starting to criticize little things I do” _

It’s been 10 days, 5 hours, 18 minutes, 37 seconds—an eternity—since he’s seen Brian. He doesn’t cope well, can’t handle not seeing a guy he barely knows as if they’re lifelong friends. It’s only been 10 days, but it feels like it’s been years. Freddie regrets not asking Brian for his number back, he wouldn’t have had to wait for so long. Thinking about it, maybe it’s the best idea he doesn’t have it—if Brian had called earlier, it would have shown him he wants to see him, but if Freddie had called himself, he would have imagined for way too long that Brian cares about him. 

_ “It makes me just feel like crying” _

He’s been lying in bed for far too long, feeling sorry for himself because Brian probably doesn’t like him like he’s wished for. He’s been miserable for far too long, writing tearful,  _ stupid _ lyrics, painting things way too dark and listening to the saddest music, as if he’s trying to get over a painful breakup. There was never anything, just a few cuddles, a few kisses. The thing is that Freddie yearns for those things too much, so he falls for anyone that gives him that easily, then he falls flat on his back when it doesn’t work out or when the guy never calls back, never turns up again to the same bar. No one has ever stayed long enough to show him what being with someone truly is like—excluding the times with women because he wasn’t happier in those, even being with a nice girl wasn’t enough to make his heart feel warmer, it never helped to make the unbearable loneliness go away. Maybe he isn’t made for relationships, he should have expected it when he decided to become the person he wants to be, he should have expected that maybe no man would want him that way, for more than just his cock and his talented hands. 

_ “Cause baby, something beautiful's dyin’ ” _

Maybe it’s for the best that he isn’t likeable enough to get anyone, maybe it’s for the best that he can’t find a band, someone to sing for. Maybe it just means that none of this is meant to be, that he can’t find anyone to look at him like he’s hung the moon and the stars because he would ruin it eventually, or because it’s better to be spared from the heartbreak that will eventually follow. Maybe he can’t find a band because his father is right, because it would never get him anywhere near success. Maybe it’s for the best that nothing is working out like he wants, at least maybe his parents would think of him less as a failure and more as their own honourable son. 

He knows he’s just fooling himself—they’ll never be anywhere near proud of him. He could be working 80 hours a week and they would still call him lazy, he could be dating a perfect English woman and they would tell him she’s not Indian enough. 

_ “You lost that lovin' feelin' “ _

“Oh, shut up!” He shouts. 

He gets up from his bed, removing the needle from the record delicately despite his boiling anger. He can’t listen to the song anymore, he’s sick of it, sick of pitying himself. He hates pity, even when it’s his own. Fuck Brian, fuck trying to make something out of his miserable life, fuck the  _ entire _ world. 

His eyes sting. It’s too dry in his room, he shouldn’t smoke in here anymore, it makes him nauseous. It makes his eyes water. It’s the only reason his eyelashes are getting damp. The phone on his nightstand rings, jolting him out of his half asleep state. He picks it up, not even bothering to sit up. 

“Hello?” He asks, trying to yawn as quietly as possible. 

“Hi, Freddie, it’s Brian,” The person on the other end of the phone says. 

Freddie’s heart jumps, his expression brightens and he feels a tingling sensation at the pit of his stomach; butterflies flying everywhere. He’s been waiting beside his phone for so long that it barely feels real. 

“Brian,” he breathes out, almost relieved to hear him, finally. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t called before, I’ve been really busy with school the last few days,” Brian explains, warmth in his voice. 

“Oh it’s perfectly fine, darling!” Freddie answers way too quickly. 

He feels stupid. He told himself only minutes ago that he wouldn’t stay so hung up on Brian, that he would forget about him, as if he deserves better, but he knows it’s the other way around.

“We have a gig tonight, do you want to come? I know it’s not as exciting as a real date, but I promise I’ll bring you somewhere better soon.”

Soon,  _ soon _ —is soon in months or days? A real date, that is all Freddie wants, but he doesn’t know if he should trust Brian to say the truth, he doesn’t want his life to be an endless loop of getting a bit of happiness before having his heart crushed. 

“Of course! The same pub as usual?” Freddie exclaims, hitting his own head with his palm, desperately trying to convince himself to say something smart, like to tell Brian off for waiting so long before calling him—he probably had a minute just to tell him that he didn’t have much time this week—but he can’t, he can’t bring himself to ruin this, even if his dignity suffers from it. 

“Yes! I can’t wait to see you, Freddie,” Brian says and Freddie’s heart melts against his will. 

“I can’t wait to see you either, darling.”

  
  
  


It takes a few steps into the pub before Freddie sees Brian. Brian looks back at him, smiling, he says something to the girl he’s talking to—Freddie can hear at the back of his mind a taunting whisper  _ ‘a girl, pretty, isn’t she? Just like you’ll never be’ _ —and then walks to him, looking insanely good in his basic T-shirt, trousers, and his  _ clogs _ that Freddie stupidly loves. 

“Hi!” Brian smiles, pink forming at the apple of his cheeks. “Come with me,” he whispers, walking away. 

Freddie follows him, trying to walk beside him, but giving up when he has to go behind him each time there’s someone blocking his way. He realises, surprised, that they’re going to the bathroom. Brian opens the door and lets him walk in first. He checks that all the stalls are empty before taking Freddie’s hand. 

“You look lovely,” he says and Freddie feels so happy that his heart could fly off his chest. 

“You look good too, but you would look even better with more exciting clothes,” he jokes, even though it’s not really a joke. He understands that what he’s said is stupid when one of Brian eyebrows goes up considerably. Why did he say that? “I mean—I’m not saying that you aren’t dressed well, I like what you’re wearing. You look good, I’m only joking, I—“ he stops babbling when he realises he’s already said too much. 

He can feel his face heat up. 

“I missed you a lot, Freddie,” Brian laughs, but Freddie knows he’s serious. It’s always nice to know you’re missed.

“I missed you too, dearie,” he responds, excitement filling him when a Brian smiles wider. 

Brian leans in, his lips brushing against Freddie’s cheek. He closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the soft warmth on his face as much as possible. He wishes they could stay there, forever, with Brian kissing him and being his sweet self. 

Brian barely has time to pull away before the door is opened by Roger, interrupting them, again. 

“Bria— Oh hi Fred! Brian, the show starts in ten minutes so get your arse prepared, would you?” He exclaims, slightly annoyed, but he somehow looks amused too. 

“Yeah, of course, give me a minute,” Brian responds, carefully watching Roger walk out before giving Freddie a chaste kiss on the lips. 

“Come on, I’ll show you the best place to see us play,” he says, opening the door for him again. 

Freddie follows him through the crowd again and sits down on the chair Brian presents him at the bar. Brian goes to say something, but is cut off by Roger calling his name from backstage. 

“I’ll see you after,” he whispers before walking away, leaving Freddie overwhelmed by a thousand different emotions. 

He sits there, wondering if Brian truly kissed him on the lips, if he really complimented how he looks, if he truly told him he misses him. Freddie’s been miserable for days thinking Brian didn’t want to see him again, that he would never call him, only to discover that he’s been missed just as much as he’s missed Brian. 

“Hi!”

He turns his head when he realises that the girl beside him is talking to him. 

“I’m Jo, Roger’s girlfriend,” she explains and Freddie realises silently that she’s the girl he’d seen walk out of Roger’s bedroom the other day. 

“I’m Freddie,” he introduces himself, taking the hand she’s holding out to shake it lightly, “I go to the same college as Tim.”

“I’m assuming you got along well with Brian?” She asks. 

“Yeah, we’re good friends,” Freddie tells her. A bit more than friends, but he can’t be sure she’ll react well if he tells her they’re planning to go on a date. She seems nice, nicer than most women Freddie’s met, but he needs to be careful. She’s Roger’s girlfriend. 

Somehow, Freddie likes her already. 

  
  
  


The flat is almost quiet. Roger is already in his bedroom with Jo, doing _god knows_ _what_ , things Brian doesn’t want to know about. Tim had gone to his room too, he was exhausted after the gig and had clearly told everyone to leave him alone. 

There’s only one sound, Brian realises as he walks closer to his bedroom, a soft, angelic voice singing, unaware that anyone is listening. Brian recognises it’s Freddie’s when he’s just at the door frame. He stays there, listening to the lyrics of Doin’ Alright being sung so much more beautifully than Brian thought could be possible. 

Brian’s never heard a better voice than Freddie’s. 

There’s footsteps behind him, but he ignores them, absorbed by the calming aspect of Freddie’s singing. 

“He’s good, huh?”

Brian turns around to see Tim, looking at him basically spying on Freddie. His cheeks heat up, but he ignores it, trying to not make it even more obvious that he’s fallen head over heels for Freddie. 

“God, yeah,” he breathes out, still so surprised that Freddie’s managed to hide something so incredible for that long. 

“I knew you’d say that,” Tim spits. Brian’s never heard him talking so coldly. “You were just trying to find a reason to get rid of me, weren’t you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were just trying to find a way to kick me out of the band.” Tim retorts, not answering Brian’s question. His face has gone red—not out of embarrassment but out of anger. “You knew he was a better singer and you were just waiting to shove it in my face.”

“You’re the one who introduced us, Tim, if I remember correctly,” Brian hisses. He can feel anger consuming him too: Tim is being unfair. 

“Well I didn’t think you would fucking  _ betray _ me!”

Brian almost answers something, something probably irreversible, but he shuts his mouth when he sees Freddie getting out of the room, likely to see what’s going on. 

“Is everything okay?” He asks. 

“Yeah everything’s fi—“

Tim cuts him off before he can say anything. 

“Honestly if you could just fuck off, everything would be fine. You’ve fucking ruined my career, you’ve ruined my entire fucking life.”

“Tim, will you stop being an asshole?” Brian tells him when he notices how shocked and taken aback Freddie is. Tim shouldn’t have involved him in all this. 

“You know what? Fine! I’ll just fuck off myself then! You can take my place, Freddie!”

He walks away, or more  _ stomps _ away, to the living room and Brian finds himself feeling obligated to follow him. He doesn’t want the band to end on such bad terms. He sends Freddie an apologetic smile before following Tim. 

  
  
  


Freddie heard what they said when he was back in the bedroom. He knows it’s because of him that they’ve started fighting, that it’s his fault. God, it’s all his fault. 

He goes back to Brian’s bedroom when he hears yelling in the living room. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s spying on them, but he also just hates yelling. He hates fighting more than anything, even when he isn’t involved in it. But now he  _ is _ involved—he’s the whole reason why the fighting has started. 

Brian probably won’t want him to stay after this; why would he? Freddie’s probably broken up his band and made him lose one of his best friends. 

He walks in rounds around the room for what feels like ages until the bang of the front door rings in his head. It’s only at that point that he dares joining Brian. He braces himself for the worst, for Brian to tell him to leave, to never come back, to never talk to him again. 

Roger is there too, his shoulders rubbed by Jo’s delicate hands. She shares a look with Freddie: she almost looks worried. Brian looks up at him when he’s in front of them. Freddie doesn’t let him talk first. 

“I should probably leave,” he whispers. 

“Of course not,” Brian protests.

He gets up from the couch, sends Roger a look and turns back to Freddie when he nods. He smiles at Freddie and Freddie finally relaxes, Brian doesn’t look angry.

“Do you want to be our singer?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

The wait had been painful, not that Freddie would have said anything to Brian. It had taken two weeks for Brian to finally plan a date. Freddie doesn’t blame him: they’d been busy, there was school, work, the band, and Brian even helped him and Roger when they decided to start a clothes stall in Kensington Market. It’s risky, they know nothing about having a shop, but they’ll make it work. There had been several meetings, the three of them talking about the band, about finding a bassist, there had been the meeting of Freddie’s cheek and Brian’s chest, the meeting of their lips. Brian had repeated multiple times that he was trying to find the right moment, a night when they wouldn’t be occupied, when they’d be all on their own. He’d apologised for it being so late, but Freddie wouldn’t hear any of it. He likes Brian too much to be annoyed. 

And now, Brian’s picking him up—not really, since they’re taking the tube like usual, but still—in a few minutes to go God knows where. Freddie has spent the whole day trying to figure out which outfit would be the best for a first date, how he should style his hair, how much makeup he should really put on—does Brian like makeup? He’s excited, naturally, but he’s nervous too. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Brian, but it almost feels like it. He just hopes Brian won’t realise he really doesn’t like him, or that he’s just a bit too much, too extravagant for what he wants. He really wants Brian to like him. 

It’s only when the bell rings that Freddie realises how fucked he is. There’s still toothpaste foaming at his mouth, still no eyeliner on his eyes. He quickly rinses his mouth, smelling his breath, because it would be humiliating if it wasn’t fresh enough and Brian tried to kiss him. Quickly, he ruffles his hair, he’s seen how Brian looks at him when his hair isn’t straightened, when it stays untouched. Taking his eyeliner from the countertop, he walks to the door, looking through the small window to make sure it actually is Brian—it is—and he opens it, grinning. 

“Hi, darling!” He exclaims. 

He’d seen Brian the day before, but being with him always brings up his mood. 

“Hey,” Brian responds, smiling softly, happily—he’s missed Freddie a lot—and Freddie’s entire being melts. 

Freddie looks at the mirror on the wall just beside the front door and applies his eyeliner as swiftly as possible, then he turns back to Brian and closes his eyes trustingly. 

“How does it look?”

It isn’t an answer he receives, but a kiss on his lips, warm and soft, a hand under his chin, lifting his head up. His face warms up immediately. 

“It’s perfect,” Brian answers and Freddie opens his eyes again. 

_ ‘You’re perfect,’  _ he wants to say, but doesn’t because he wouldn’t want to be moving too quickly and they haven’t even started their date yet. 

“You look- you look really beautiful,” Brian says with a breathy laugh, holding his hands. Freddie feels beautiful, like that, under Brian’s gaze. 

“Thank you,” he whispers shyly, “And you’re very handsome,” he tells Brian, looking at the shirt he’s put on, he looks so classy, the exact contrary of Freddie, but he doesn’t mind it, he loves how they’re so different that they’re perfect together. 

Brian kisses him on the cheek and Freddie wonders if this is how you usually act on first dates, like you’re already in a relationship—not that he has any objection to it. He’s just happy to be the center of Brian’s attention. He likes attention, maybe a bit too much, but hopefully it doesn’t scare Brian away. He’ll try and not be too needy; it’s only the first date after all. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

  
  
  


Freddie realises after asking a few times that Brian really doesn’t plan on telling him where they’re going. The tube is empty and when they’re finally seated, Brian takes his hand. At some point, someone sits near them and they stop holding onto each other. Freddie’s still glad he’s had a chance to hold Brian’s hand for a little bit. 

“Where are we going?”

“Freddie, I’m not telling you! It’s a surprise,” Brian answers for the fourth time, laughing. 

  
  
  


When Brian tells him they’ve arrived, Freddie realises how much he really likes Brian. They’re in front of a gallery, an art gallery. Brian pushes him inside and pays for two tickets. Freddie reads the inscriptions on his own ticket and smiles up brightly at Brian. He’d told him a while ago just how much he likes portraits and that it’s his favourite type of art. He never thought that Brian would remember, that he’d care enough to maybe note it somewhere or just remember it. He never thought Brian was interested in any of what he talks about. 

“A portrait exhibition?” Freddie asks quietly, holding tightly onto the small piece of paper in his hands. 

“You like those, right?” Brian’s says, hopeful looking. It’d be embarrassing if he got confused and Freddie hates them. He doesn’t have enough courage to say it, but he truly wants this to work, to have Freddie as more than a friend. 

“I love them, darling!” He exclaims, jumping in Brian’s arms before realising that there’s many people around, probably watching them. 

He pulls away awkwardly, patting Brian on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, smiling and Brian smiles back at him understandingly. 

It’s evident that art exhibitions aren’t Brian’s favourite places to go to, but Freddie finds it sweet that he makes the effort just to please him. No one’s ever done that for him. He’ll have to do something like that for Brian too. Go to the planetarium or go somewhere where they can look at the stars. He’s sure Brian will enjoy it. 

They stay for almost two hours, looking at the paintings while talking about everything and nothing at the same time. At some point, they both realise how hungry they are and decide to go and eat somewhere. It takes a while to find somewhere and even after that, Brian keeps apologising because the only place they can afford to go to is a small fast food place that has five tables at most. But it doesn’t matter to Freddie, he’s just happy to spend time with him. 

They sit in the corner of the restaurant at a small table with two benches. There’s no one else around but the waitress; an old woman that keeps looking at Freddie with a disapproving frown. At any other moment, he would have been embarrassed, but it’s like Brian makes him courageous like he never usually is. Anyway, it’s not like he’s not used to it. He knows he doesn’t dress like the average man: it’s who he is and he doesn’t have anyone to apologize to for it— but he’ll probably contradict himself the next time he sees his parents scowling at him. 

They both order fish and chips; Freddie notices the way Brian seems embarrassed that that’s all they can pay for, but he doesn’t apologize again. 

“I really hope we’ll find a bassist soon, I’m really excited to start doing gigs,” Freddie admits at some point. He blushes when he realises that Brian had been talking. 

“I can’t wait to see you perform, I mean, you do sing better than Tim,” Brian says, unapologetic.

“Brian! You can’t say that!”

“Even you know it,” Brian retorts, which is true, but Freddie would never admit it. 

“It doesn’t matter, imagine what poor Tim would say if he heard you,” Freddie protests. 

“But he isn’t there, is he? I just have a feeling you’ll make us reach the moon.”

“Brian,” Freddie whispers, touched. It’s very Brian’s style to talk sweetly while still making references about space. 

Freddie had been defeated only weeks ago, thinking of giving up on his dream of being in a successful band, of giving up on trying to find the right man to spend his life with. And now he has both, or at least partly. They’re not successful,  _ yet _ , and Brian and him aren’t together,  _ yet.  _ He hopes that he’ll be lucky enough to have those dreams coming true. Doesn’t he deserve it after being stepped on for so long?

“I really wanna kiss you,” Freddie says as quietly as possible. He doesn’t want to know what the waitress would do if she heard him. 

“Come here,” Brian answers, voice soft, patting the spot beside him. 

Looking around nervously, Freddie gets up from his own seat and sits just beside Brian. They keep a bit of distance between each other, they can’t act too obvious. Brian laces their fingers under the table and Freddie wishes they wouldn’t have to hide, that they could put their hands on the table, proudly, without having to fear for their safety. He hopes it doesn’t bother Brian, that he won’t get tired of having to hide, of having to pretend. Freddie really hopes they’ll never stop being so close. 

Boldly, Freddie decides to tangle his foot with Brian’s. He waits carefully in case Brian pulls away, but he doesn’t; he grins and looks at him, locking his eyes with Freddie’s. They’re so loving that Freddie thinks he could fall in love right there, at this very moment—as if he’s not already in love. 

There’s the clearing of a throat and both realise that the rude looking waitress is there, waiting for them to notice her and order. Brian flushes pink and Freddie can’t help but keep looking at the colour of his cheeks while Brian orders their meal. When Freddie looks back at her, she looks even more disapproving than before. 

“Clearly his dick is up your ass,” she whispers to herself, loud enough for Freddie to hear. 

He only smiles at her—the fakest smile possible—and lets her walk away. 

“And don’t you think she needs one up hers, too?” Brian mutters quite loudly in his ear. 

The waitress has clearly heard, because she sends them a deathly glare before disappearing to the front of the restaurant. When she’s out of view, Freddie—with his face red—explodes into laughter, holding his stomach. Brian does too, beside him, his hand now on Freddie’s thigh. 

“Brian! You can’t say that!” Freddie shrieks, still laughing. He only thinks to put his hand in front of his mouth when he notices how Brian is staring at him, but Brian takes it away and—without hesitation—kisses him, smiling widely. 

“Too bad for her, I can be rude if she’s rude,” Brian answers with a shrug, lips still millimetres away from Freddie’s. 

  
  


When they finally get their food, it’s another waitress that serves them and Brian and Freddie share a look. They talk and eat for a while, and they finally leave when the younger waitress tells them that the restaurant is closing. It’s already late and Freddie hadn’t even noticed, too concentrated on Brian’s lips—wet from where he’d licked them—moving as he talks or his hand still resting lightly on his thigh. 

Freddie takes his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers and takes the money for his meal out, but Brian stops him before he can, taking his own money for both the meals. 

“Brian, you can’t pay for me,” Freddie protests, frowning slightly, he tries again, but Brian stops him this time too. 

“I’m paying for this date,” he insists, he can’t let Freddie pay for his own dinner when he’s the one who invited him in the first place. And anyway, even if he doesn’t have much money, he would spend it all to make Freddie happy. 

“You’ve already paid for the exhibition!”

Brian rolls his eyes playfully before opening his hand, letting Freddie give him the money. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Freddie whispers, pointing to the toilets. He walks away and Brian blushes when he realises he’s been looking at Freddie’s arse for a bit too long. Quickly, he slips Freddie’s money back in the new wallet he’s left on the table and leaves his own money on the table. He gets up from the bench and waits for Freddie patiently. 

_ It’s only when Brian’s gone that Freddie notices the money is back in his wallet.  _

Brian insists on walking Freddie all the way to his flat, as if he’d miss any opportunity to spend more time with him. 

When they’re at the door of the flat, Freddie realises—sadly—that Brian has to leave. He knows they’ll see each other soon; they do almost every day, but he’s still upset, he’ll miss him for the rest of the night. 

“You really can’t stay?” He asks, his eyes already half-lidded with both exhaustion and sorrow. 

“I have to be at school early tomorrow,” Brian answers, he wants to stay so badly, but he can’t, or else he’ll be late the next day. He wishes he could stay, hold Freddie in his arms for the night, kiss him in the morning. 

“Okay,” Freddie whispers, he knows he’s not being fair, probably making Brian feel guilty when he doesn’t have a choice, but he just really isn’t looking forward to spending the night in his uncomfortable bed on his own. “Goodnight, Bri.”

He kisses Brian on the cheek lightly, how ridiculous he’s being, they’ve already spent hours together, shouldn’t that be enough?

“Oh fuck it,” Brian grumbles, taking Freddie’s hand and dragging him inside. He closes the door behind them and—he can’t resist it—he kisses Freddie for the hundredth time tonight, but this time, it’s passionate, even explosive. 

Brian does hold Freddie in his arms during the night and kisses him in the morning. He’s never been so happy. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! Leave me a comment if you did, or if you have any suggestions for this story or another story! Thank you for reading ♥️


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